Sheikhs: Rich, powerful desert kings and the women who bring them to their knees...

by Clare Connelly

  Radiz flicked the belt of her robe, so that it drifted open. “Let me show you what I want from you.”

  He pushed the robe away completely, so that it fell to the floor, and then lifted the lingerie from her body. She stood naked, shivering, and filled with self-loathing. Because she wanted to tell him to go to hell, but she wanted him to make her feel better even more. And, in her experience, the best she ever felt was when Radiz was making love to her.

  “Why are you so angry with me?” She asked from between chattering teeth.

  He lifted her and carried her to the bed, then removed his boxers. He was angry because he’d been forced to explain himself to Samir. Something he, Radiz, had never done in his life was explain his actions to another person. Why had she wandered off? Why had Samir found her?

  But more than that, he was angry at the world. Angry at this woman who seemed to be all he wanted, who was forever out of reach.

  He slid inside her moist core, releasing a guttural sound of pleasure as his body filled her completely. Her muscles moved to accommodate him, and he pushed deeper, wondering if he’d ever felt anything so perfect.

  “I am not angry with you, little one,” the term of endearment slipped out before he could correct it. “I am simply making sure you understand that we have a black and white agreement.”

  Her heart was breaking, but her body was crumbling with lust and need. She dug her nails into his back and lifted her legs, crying out over and over again as he sent her tumbling into a pleasurable abyss.

  It was only afterwards, when they were spent from making love, that she realised her cheeks were wet. She lifted a hand and touched the salty proof of her tears.

  She was still crying. Her eyes seemed to be leaking and she didn’t know how to stop it.

  Her hands, wet from her sadness, now moved to his chest. She pushed at his firm muscular wall, shoving him away from her. It surprised him, and he rolled off her, releasing her body. His eyes clung to her face; proof that she had been deeply hurt by his callous clarification. He stood, and realised he was uncertain of what to say. His feet were trailing entirely new ground.

  “I want you to go,” she whispered. And though her back was to him, he could see from the way it shuddered that she was properly crying now.

  He stood there, still uncertain. “You are upset.”

  Her laugh was without humour. “Gee, you’re so observant.”

  “You do not need to be sarcastic.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need,” she shouted, wrapping her hands together and placing them in her lap. “You don’t know anything about me, least of all what I need.”

  He resisted the urge to point out that he knew an awful lot about her, in fact. Instead, he walked around the bed and came to stand in front of her. “You tell me then. What do you need?”

  “I need you to go.”

  “I will go,” he said quietly, “But only when you have stopped crying. Go and have a shower. I will wait until you return, and then I will leave.”

  She glared at him, a fulminating rage visible in her face. “You are the most arrogant, bossy, hateful pig of a man I have ever known.”

  He shrugged. “The sooner you stop crying, the sooner I will leave you in peace.”

  He waited until he heard the shower running and then leaned his head forward, and cradled it in his hands. Until the day he died, he knew he would remember the hurt look of accusation on her beautiful face.

  He dragged his fingers through his hair, and stared at the bathroom door. He had been unkind to her. Unnecessarily abrupt and rude. He stood and strode across the room, walking the same track Miranda had paved earlier that night. He had not been ready to answer questions about them. He wasn’t sure he ever would be. After all, taking advantage of her in the way he had was beneath him. It was certainly beneath what he expected of himself.

  He walked to her wardrobe, and stared distractedly at the hanging assortment of high-end lingerie. It made his stomach clench painfully to see it now. All very beautiful, and even more so when worn by Miranda, but it looked cheap all together like that.

  The sound of the door opening behind him caught his attention. He spun, and felt a stab of pain in his chest. Miranda was no longer crying, but her face was puffy beneath her eyes, and she couldn’t quite look at him.

  “I’m fine now,” she said with enough bravado to break his heart. “You can go.”

  “Miranda,” he sighed heavily, and crossed the room. She took a step backwards as he neared, and again, he felt that stabbing pain in his gut. “I was embarrassed that Samir found out about us like that. I took my anger out on you, and it was very, very wrong of me. I apologise for speaking so rudely to you.”

  Miranda’s eyes flew to his face. His words were what she needed, but they offered no balm to her aching soul. He might have regretted what he said, but the sentiments were obviously very real.

  “Thank you for the apology,” she said stonily. “Is there anything else you need tonight, your highness?”

  He desperately wanted to pull her into his arms, to kiss her senseless. Rather, to kiss some sense into her, for she was acting without thinking. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. To do so would have been without honour. So he nodded and stepped away from her.

  He knew, as he let himself out of her room, that he had irrevocably damaged what they shared. The sex might still be earth-shattering, but she would never smile for him in that sweet, open way she had. And he didn’t deserve her to.

  Chapter Seven

  Miranda stared at Radiz, without knowing exactly what to say. He was dressed in a tuxedo for the first time in their acquaintance, and it transformed him into an impossibly handsome God of a man. All day she had thought of him. Their fight had been awful. The things he’d said unforgivable. And still, she knew she loved him.

  It made a mockery of her, because his feelings were so clearly the opposite, and yet love didn’t listen to something as obvious as common sense.

  “May I come in?”

  Miranda continued to stare at him, non-comprehendingly. “Are you going somewhere?”

  His smile was a shadow. “I just need a moment.”

  “What is it?”

  “May I come in?”

  She nodded, and moved away from the door. “Of course you can. I am your prisoner, after all.”

  He smiled, but her words filled him with renewed frustration.

  As he stepped into the room, she realised that he had two big black bags behind his back. She was curious, despite herself.

  “These are for you.” He put them down on the table, and then stepped away, to observe her reaction.

  Miranda furrowed her brow as she opened the top of one of the bags and peered inside. “More clothes?”

  “These aren’t clothes.” He gestured to the wardrobe with a grimace.

  “No.” She lifted a dress out of the bag, and took a brief moment to admire its exceptional design and craftsmanship. Then, she folded it and replaced it back in the bag. “The lingerie I’m wearing isn’t clothing. It’s a costume. A costume perfectly suited to what I am to you. I’ll keep wearing them, thanks.” She passed the bags back to him, and he was so surprised that he opened his hands and took them.

  “But…”

  “Oh, no, Your Highness. I wouldn’t want to be getting ideas that we were about anything other than sex.” She walked away from him and brazenly lifted her negligee as she went. She tossed it on the floor, then stood, naked, beside the bed. “Well?” She prompted, when he stared at her dumbfounded.

  “Miranda…” He shook his head from side to side, replacing the bags on the floor. “You are still angry.”

  “I’m not angry,” she retorted fiercely, as her temper reached screaming point. “I’m grateful that you clarified how you feel. It’s saved me a heap of embarrassment, actually. Did you come here for a quickie before whatever it is you’re going to?”

  She was hurting, badly, and so he brushed away her crude accusation and
prowled towards her. “While I find you quite irresistible, no. I’m here to pick you up. We have a date.”

  It stopped her mid-tirade. “A date?”

  “Yes. Though I think it would be in poor taste to go out in public, given the criminal charges you still face, I have arranged a more suitable apology for last night.”

  “Oh.” She looked down at her body and grimaced.

  “You are welcome to wear whatever you’d like, I simply thought real clothes were a courtesy well and truly overdue.”

  She closed her eyes against the feelings that were ransacking her emotional equilibrium. Surprise. Relief. Pleasure. Pain. Hurt. Disappointment. She didn’t know where she was with Radiz but the prospect of doing something with him besides just bedroom activities was intoxicating.

  “I will come back and collect you in an hour. You can be ready?”

  She nodded, struck mute suddenly.

  “Good.”

  He returned promptly, fifty-nine minutes later, to find Miranda had transformed into a woman far more beautiful than he could have imagined. Oh, she was stunning at all times, but dressed in a demure black gown, with her silky blonde hair pulled back into a chignon, with a minimum of make up on her face, she looked… like she belonged, he thought with a pang. She looked like more than just a lover; a consort of the Sheikh. She looked like a princess.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the diamond necklace he’d had made. It was perfect for her slender neck, and he clipped it into place before she could object. “Now you are ready,” he said, smiling down at her.

  “I can’t wear this,” she objected, fingering the expensive jewellery self-consciously.

  Radiz resisted the urge to point out it was worth a fraction of the jewellery she had intended to steal from Mastepha’s apartment. “You look very beautiful, Miranda. And very regal.”

  She looked at him in surprise, her step faltering a little. “Thank you.”

  “Where are we going?” She asked, as he led her through the palace’s marble hallways.

  “You will find out, soon.”

  And she did. Moments later, when they emerged from a pair of glass doors, she saw what Radiz had arranged. One of the palace balconies had been turned into a candle-lit wonderland. There must have been a thousand little flames, flickering in the gentle evening breeze. A table was set for two in the centre of the space, and soft classical guitar music lilted towards them. “I would have hired a band, except I didn’t want our privacy to be invaded.” He gestured to the table. “Everything has been prepared. We are completely alone.”

  Miranda nodded, and continued her slow inspection. There were soft, brightly coloured cushions scattered in one corner. The perfect spot to sit and talk.

  “Can I get you a glass of champagne?”

  “Champagne?” She arched a brow and nodded. “Yes, please.”

  He poured two glasses of bubbles from a bottle with beautiful gold lettering across the front. “It is the royal label,” he explained. “We make only a thousand bottles each year. Some we give away to diplomats, some we drink, and some we keep for future events. Weddings, for example.”

  She nodded, but his mention of a wedding made her heart skitter. For Radiz would marry. And his bride would not be her. He would marry someone from his own culture. Someone beautiful and glamorous and without a criminal record. She took the proffered champagne and sipped it quickly. “It’s lovely,” she commented, though she hadn’t tasted it properly. The idea of his marrying someone else filled her mouth with a bitter metallic taste. He would belong to another woman. Another woman would pleasure him and be pleased by him.

  She forced an over-bright smile to her face, and moved towards the cushions. “Shall we?”

  He nodded. “As you wish.”

  She settled herself on the ground, sighing as her eyes drifted over the sensational desert scenery beneath them. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anything as beautiful as this,” she said honestly. “It’s a shame I didn’t spend more time in the city before I… before…” She looked at him apologetically. “I would have liked to see more of it.”

  “Perhaps you will come back one day,” he murmured, leaning back on his palms and looking unconcernedly over the land.

  Radiz seemed to have accepted the necessity of her departure. The question now was ‘when’? Miranda sipped her champagne again, and this time tasted the hint of honey and vanilla. It bubbled all the way down her throat. “I love champagne,” she said with a smile. “I rarely drink. My parents never really approved of alcohol, and so I missed that whole experimental phase. But every now and again, for special occasions, I have a glass of champagne. It’s such a happy drink. Don’t you think?”

  He laughed at the description. “I had never thought of it like that.”

  “Well, it makes me feel happy.”

  “I am sorry that you are not otherwise happy.”

  She sighed, and ran a finger around the top of her glass. “I don’t like being kept prisoner. Who would?”

  He nodded. “I wish you could explain to me why you broke into Mastepha’s apartment. And how.”

  “I know.” She bit down on her lip and stared out at the desert.

  “You were engaged.”

  The change of conversation was swift and clunky. Miranda looked at him in surprise. “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  She turned her attention back to the nightscape. “I didn’t love him.”

  “I see. And this meant you would not marry him?”

  “Of course!” She laughed, for it was such a silly statement. “How could I tie myself to someone for the rest of my life once I knew I wasn’t in love?”

  “Love is fleeting. There are far better expectations to rely on when entering into marriage.”

  “Oh, really?” She asked, morbidly interested in the conversation despite the certainty she held that it would lead to a broken heart. “Such as?”

  “Compatibility, respect, shared interests.”

  “I see.” Her tone was droll. “How exciting you make it sound.”

  “Life does not need to be exciting. In fact, sometimes the absence of excitement is far more desirable.”

  “Yes, in some ways, but not in a marriage. Love doesn’t exclude those other feelings. There should be love and respect, and compatibility.”

  “You didn’t feel respect or compatibility with your ex-fiance?”

  “Andrew,” she supplied, thinking how strange it was to say his name now. They had planned to spend the rest of their lives together, and now she barely thought of him. “I felt nothing for him in the end. We fell in love when we were in high school. We liked each a long time after we fell out of love. It’s hard to break an engagement when family is involved. His parents, my dad, they were all devastated, but I knew I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t marry him.”

  Radiz ignored the burst of relief he felt. “It must have been very hard to come to this decision.”

  “Yes. But I had St… good friends.” She pushed her champagne aside, afraid that another sip would make her unable to hold her tongue. “Even though it was only a few months ago, I hardly think of him now.”

  Was this the man she’d called from his phone? He thought of the voice at the other end of the line and frowned. Were they still close? Was it possible they might reunite?

  “And has he moved on so easily?”

  She shook her head. “I think he’s fine. I mean, neither of us thought it was any great love match in the end.”

  “Do you really believe in those fairy tales?”

  She laughed. “I spend my life studying ancient cultures and civilisations. Of course I do. I’m a romantic; what can I say?”

  He studied her beautiful profile, wondering why he’d never noticed the tiny cluster of freckles on her nose before. “In this way I suspect we’re not at all compatible.”

  “In many ways, I would say, we are not compatible,” she agreed quietly.

  Why did her
certainty bother him? He lifted a hand and touched her cheek. “And yet we are in others.”

  She rolled her eyes. Sex.

  He laughed. “Not just in bed,” he denied her unspoken response. “I think we are both hard-willed and determined.”

  “Do you?” She asked, her heart racing. “Why do you say that?”

  “You could have lied to me, Miranda, and said that you know Mastepha. You could have made up a story, and I would have been so desperate to find news of my sister that I probably would have believed you and let you go.”

  “Would you have?” She pondered, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Maybe I didn’t want to be let go that badly.”

  Radiz looked at her sharply. “Meaning?”

  She swallowed, her heart in her throat. “I mean… I mean…” Oh, stuff it. She reached for the champagne and sipped it, needing any kind of courage she could get. “Meaning I didn’t feel like I had to lie to escape. Believe it or not, while I’ve hated being your prisoner, I’ve loved being yours. I’ve loved…” she swallowed again, “you.”

  Radiz stared at her in surprise. Discomfort replaced shock, as he digested her statement. I’ve loved being yours I’ve loved you... She wasn’t his. Not really. And he didn’t want her to be. She was a thief. For whatever motivation, she was a woman who’d intended to steal from his family. He’d let his desire for her cloud his rational judgement. He could never give her anything more than what they already shared. His people would not tolerate someone like her as their Sheikha.

  He had to end it. It was a blinding flash of clarity, but it was perfect in its rightness. Her body had bewitched him, but he still had enough wits about him to know that this relationship could not go on. She was a thief, and who knew what else? He wondered if he’d exposed himself to some kind of tell-all tabloid story by divulging so much of himself to his woman. After all, he really knew very little about her, besides the fact she had expensive taste, and was willing to go to any lengths to get what she wanted.

  He shifted uncomfortably, and turned his attention back to the desert. And though he knew he had come to the wise, righteous decision, he felt empty inside when he spoke. “You will not be my prisoner for much longer.”